University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

—The Park.
Enter Lord Athunree and Felton.
Ath.
Yes; I desired him to attend me here.
Behoves my door and he be strangers, lest
Our practices be traced. Want dogs him still,
And fits him for my purpose, by the threat
Of her pernicious tooth. Yet there's a weakness,
I would he had not. Much he loves his child;
Which shows his nature is not callous all;
Whence oftentimes I dread some start of ruth.
But finds he out fair Hero's close retreat,
The meagre knave shall fatten. Soft! he's here—
Well, have you traced her?

Enter Lewson.
Lew.
Yes; she is at Greenwich,
Where I and mine abide and famish.

Ath.
Fool!
Not to have guess'd as much, and know she hath
A villa there. Resides she by herself?

Lew.
She does.

Ath.
Then is she mine. Canst thou obtain
Secret admission?

Lew.
Easily, my lord;
Into her chamber-window, which looks out
Upon her garden.

Ath.
It must be done to-night.

Lew.
Most strangely is she changed.

Ath.
How?

Lew.
In her dress,
That's now the fashion of that formal sect,
Which at all worldly modes exception takes.

Ath.
Indeed! some plot 's on foot, and must concern
Her quarrel with Sir Valentine. To-night,
She gives me lodging. Stay—we must proceed
With such exactitude, the sun and dial
Shall vary soon as we! I'll write it down.
[Writes.
'Sdeath! I must change a word! I'll write it o'er
Again, that thou mayst have no scratch to hang
Excuse for failure on. There. Be observant
To the syllable. Away! Thy greatest hire,
For former service, I will double for thee,
Succeed'st thou but in this.

Lew.
Misgive not, sir;
I never yet have fail'd you. But, so please you,
Some present prompt supply. My children starve!
My wife, to find them half a meal a day,
Hath worn herself to skin and bone, and now
Can drag her limbs no more to forage for them.
Their pressing need relieve, and do with me
Whate'er thou wilt.

Ath.
There!

Lew.
All is noted here,
Behoveth me to heed?

Ath.
No jot forgot.
I may rely upon thee?

Lew.
As on one
Whose life is in thy hands.

[Goes out.
Ath.
The cards come round.

Fel.
I pray you, what intend you?

Ath.
He obtains
Admittance; I am on the watch, without;
She is alarm'd; I hear her cry for help;
And to her rescue naturally come.
I enter how I can, and once within,
Shape as I may the rest—assured of this,
She will accept protection; giving which,
I cast what colour on the case I please,
Insuring payment full!

Fel.
Thou art the prince
Of plotters!

Ath.
Thou art no less royal, there.
So hold we charge of one another's secrets,
Neither is like to break.

Enter Eustace and Walsingham
Eust.
Lord Athunree,
I here accuse thee of a murder! and
Will undertake to justify myself,
At the point of the sword. Hast thou the courage to
Abide the trial, whereunto I, now,
Demand of thee, thou fixest time and place,
For thy defence? Lo, I repeat the charge
And challenge too—Thou art a murderer!
And I demand thou pay the penalty,
Which if I prove defaulter in exacting,
I am content to leaguer my own life.
For the third time, I charge thee with the deed!—
Of felony more capital accuse thee
Than ever caitiff on the scaffold paid
The forfeit of! A murder,—cowardly!
Unparallel'd!—past human nature savage!
Wilt thou confront me?—Wilt thou? Canst thou? Darest thou?

Ath.
Doubt'st thou my answer prompt as thy demand?

Eust.
Give it, and leave not room for question! Where,
And when, shall we the mortal issue try?

Ath.
To-morrow!—Stay!—that gentleman thy friend?

Eust.
He is.

Ath.
He passes then as voucher for thee.
Yet I'll prevent miscarriage in the thing
Thy heart so earnestly is bent upon,
To its deep cost, I fear. There time and place
You see are written down.

[Writes on the back of the paper he had first written upon.
Eust.
For this I thank you;
That I may thoroughly be quits with you,
And all the payment on thy side be due.

Ath.
Farewell! Thou art young, but yet more rash than young!

Eust.
I am not rash, but by reflection act
As I do now, with hope my arm will prove
Stanch as my tongue. Thou art a murderer!

[Lord Athuntree and Felton go out.
Wal.
My fellow-student! Wonder hitherto
Hath tied my tongue! Has he a wrong with thee
To settle too?

Eust.
He has! Let's see what time and place
He hath appointed? Ha! what's here?
Oh, Providence is here! [Aside.]
A plot to ensnare,
In helpless ruin like to mine, the heart
In girlhood still was nearest to my own.
Then must I see thee, Hero! Pride must now
Give way to love! Occasion calls me hence,
More urgent yet than that which brought me hither.
Nor must we go together. Question, not;
But, at our place of practice, give me meeting
An hour at least ere noon.

Wal.
I shall not fail.

[Goes out.
Eust.
Oh, what a case is mine, to wear the brand
I never merited!—to be denounced
The child of guilt, that am the daughter free—
Except the primal all-referring lapse—
Of innocence! To be amerced of that,
The loss of which might make offence a thing
To be commiserated more than blamed—
For nothing!—So!—Inconstant to him!—So!—
A wanton!—So!—The framer of a lie!—
He loves me still! I pardon all for that!
For that his tongue shall rail at me again—
Pronounce me faithless—liar—wanton—aught!
Aught that I am not, for the blessed Am
That still assures him mine! Oh, I but play
A novel part! A solitary maid,
Herself to vindicate her injured name!
No father, brother, friend to plead the cause
Of her wrong'd honour, and her baffled love!
No champion left her but a woman's arm
Back'd by a woman's heart!—yet, trusting these,
And to just Heaven appealing, resolute
For life or death to meet the mortal strife!—
But where is Hero? Does thy friend forget thee,
And thou in peril? No! She flies to save thee.

[Goes out.

SCENE II.

—A Room in Hero's House at Greenwich.
Enter Hero.
Hero.
My game the more I play successfully,
The less my eagerness to win it grows.
'Tis all but mine, yet thought of victory
Sits at my heart so heavy; for defeat
To turn up now were respite to me! respite!
False gains are poor possessions, bringing not
Content—the touchstone of true happiness!
And yet I punish him! For what? for right?
Retaliation of offended wrong!
And yet he bears me beyond patience, hard.
At once to throw off duty! and my slave
To start up my dictator, that ne'er yet
Met bended brow of man—in presence too
Where vassal homage had awaited me!
He should be made to bow! and once become
My thorough captive, spurns for spurning take!
Yet doth he raise himself, by those high thoughts
He breathes of zeal and honour for my sex,
The while I sink as coming short thereof!
With this regard I fail. I must see nought
Except my purpose—by the dread of loss
Yet to enhance my value in his eyes,
Propound my terms, and to the issue come
That shows him foil'd, and me the conqueror!

Enter Clever.
Clever.
Ma'm, he is come!

Hero.
Then show him in, and mind
What we arranged, touching those friends of mine
I am to summon from the other room.
[Clever goes out.
How shall I struggle through the race, wherein
I gasp at setting out!

Enter Clever, showing in Sir Valentine.
Clever.
Here is the man
That wants to speak with thee—be careful, for
I like his habit better than his looks.
He minds me of some child of Satan, who
My spirit hath offended—Watch him, Ruth,
And advertise me if he troubleth thee.

[Goes out.
Hero.
Thy business, friend?

Sir Val.
Dost thou not know it?

Hero.
Yea!
If fits thy purpose, friend, thy habit; grave
And goodly must it be—what is its shape?
Instruction or admonishment, or what?
Unfold thee! Be it righteous and discreet,
I'll hear it as an humble sister ought.

Sir Val.
Dost thou not know me?

Hero.
Yea! that thou art one
Amongst the faithful—but I know not who
That one may be.

Sir Val.
Not know me, sister Ruth?

Hero.
Oh! is it you, friend Peter, come again
Into a new man changed!

Sir Val.
So changed for thee!
My fortune I've reduced. Made o'er to thee
For purposes of heavenly charity!

Hero.
Made o'er thy fortune? Could I this believe?

[Aside.
Sir Val.
My thousands, lady, have since yesterday
To hundreds dwindled, at thy will. If that
Contents thee not, but still I seem too rich,
Say but the word, the hundreds shrink to tens—
The tens to units—these again to nought,
That my fond love may win most rich reward.

Hero.
I dream'd not of such love!

[Aside.
Sir Val.
My title gone.

Hero.
Thy title gone!

Sir Val.
Had it been costlier,
More readily it had been thrown away,
As to thy wish, whereto it gave offence,
A meeter sacrifice! Plain gentleman
Is all they rate me now! if that's too high,
I'll be plain yeoman, for thy gentle sake;
If that, low hind! aught lady, aught! to please
The wise desires, are guardians to thy love!

Hero.
His title likewise gone! I have o'ershot
My mark! I'll stop!—Too late—I must go on!—
Thy work's not yet complete. Our sect, thou know'st,
Prohibits marriage, save amongst its own;
To number thee with whom, if thou inclinest
To recommend thee, it behoves thee win
Some brother's, sister's, word—such are at hand—
Wilt thou submit thee to their scrutiny?

Sir Val.
At once!

Hero.
But mind, whate'er they may remark,
Thou takest in silence—even in good part.
It will be scandal to me else, because
Of entertaining thee.

Sir Val.
Thy will 's my law.

[Hero rings.
Enter Clever.
Clever.
Hath he misdone? Am I to put him forth?

Hero.
No; brother Ephraim I wish to see,
And with him sister Grace.

Clever.
They saw the man
Ascend the steps, and when he was let in,
They oped the door themselves, and vanishéd!
Thereto advised by his forbidding looks.
Friend Ruth, he's poison to thee. Yesterday
I lost much grace accompanying him
From London unto Greenwich, so he vex'd
My spirit by the lightness of his gait,
And mortified me, as he drew the eyes
Of flaunting damsels on him! To reform him
Is hopeless, for the more that I admonish'd,
The more did he offend; till scandalized
Beyond endurance e'en of my meek spirit,
I waver'd between option to stand still
And let him on alone, or run and leave him.
Observe moreover he's a man of wrath,—
Look at him! He could eat me up—yea, eat me
Like to a ravening lion a poor lamb!
Ne'er judged I looks of man—if inwardly
He does not bite his lips! Be sure he swears!
Yea, he blasphemeth!—Get him from thy doors!
Eject him from them! Into the highway with him!
Heed not if night or day—in sun or rain—
Or lose thy place among the faithful, Ruth!
Umph!

[Goes out.
Hero.
They reject thee—yea, thou see'st they do!
Yea, they reject thee!

Sir Val.
Do not thou the same!
Oh, let me talk to thee in my soul's speech—
List! I have staked my life on winning thee!
Not in my own breath, but in thine I live!
My portion in the sun, the earth, and all
The affluence from their copartnery
Derived, I have made o'er to thee, nor now
Except by thy vouchsafing can enjoy!
Am I to live or die? Nay, think before
Thou speak'st, and those fair thoughts to council call,
Yet richer than the sumptuous palace which
They make their proud sojourn! So like to Heaven,
Hast not its ruth, that makes us daily bless
Its governance? Thou hast!—and as thou hast,
Let it beam down its influence on me,
And save thy worshipper! Thou lett'st me kneel—
Sure then—O! sure I do not kneel in vain.

Hero.
Rise up! These proofs of honest passion quite
Confound me.

[Aside
Sir Val.
Hear me! O, the world! the world,
That's made up of two hearts! That is the sun
It moves around! There is the verdure! There
The flower! the fruit! The spring and autumn field,
Which in the reaping grows! the mine that, work'd,
Accumulates in riches—ever free
From influences of the changing stars,
Or aught, save that which sits above them higher
Than they above the globe!—Come! make with me
E'en such a heavenly world.

Hero.
Beseech thee, rise!

Sir Val.
In hope?

Hero.
In hope! What did I say?

Sir Val.
Thou saidst—
Thou badest me rise in hope. [Rises.]
Thy heart is moved.

Hero.
'Tis touch'd.

Sir Val.
And nothing more?

Hero.
Perhaps a little.

Sir Val.
How may I call that little? what's its name—
If haply of the kind I'd have it be,
'Gainst all I've thrown away, and ten times more,
I'd set it—Lady, tell me, what's its name?
Oh, deal magnanimously with me, nor
What 'tis not wrong to feel, when thou canst feel it,
Believe 'tis wrong to speak! Frankly! couldst love me?

Hero.
Frankly, I could.

Sir Val.
Once more, be frank—and dost thou?

Hero.
Frankly, I do.

Sir Val.
I said, “once more be frank,”—
Yet must I say once more be frank again.

Hero.
And if thou dost, I will be frank again.

Sir Val.
Wilt take me for thy husband?

Hero.
There's my hand,
If no impediment forbids thee, clasp it.

Sir Val.
None.

Hero.
Soft—I'll do it! 'Twill be a sweet revenge!
[Aside.
A thought has struck me. Thou hast loved a damsel,
My likeness it should seem—and one know I,
Who, to the vision, so resembles me,
In her I see myself; nor can the ear
That hears us, well determine which is which,
In pitch and tone our voices so are one.
The damsel thou affectedst may be she—
Her name is Hero Sutton.

Sir Val.
'Tis the same.

Hero.
Another thought now strikes me. Is the name
Thou gavest to me thy real one? Alas!
Thy colour mounteth! It is clear! Thou art
Sir Valentine de Grey? Alas! alas!
Your leave to be alone!

Sir Val.
Are you not well?

Hero.
O, yes; I'm very well. Good e'en! Quite well!
Well as a woman can be, when she finds,
Too late, she rashly gave her heart away
To one, whose value for the gift will be,
Soon as he proves 'tis his, to bid her keep it.

Sir Val.
To bid her keep it!

Hero.
As Hero Sutton rues!

Sir Val.
She never gave
Her heart to me!

Hero.
She did! you know not when
A woman gives away her heart! At times
She knows it not herself! Insensibly
It goes from her! She thinks she hath it still—
If she reflects—while smoothly runs the course
Of wooing; but if haply comes a check—
An irrecoverable—final one—
Aghast—forlorn—she starts, to find it lost,
And with it, all the world!

Sir Val.
No maid could love,
And act as she.

Hero.
How did she act?

Sir Val.
I told thee.
She danced to please a libertine, and pain
A man of honour—one who worshipp'd her.

Hero.
She danced to please no man but thee! Your eyes,
She thought upon her, did alone inspire her
In the measure. Thorough conquest of the heart,
She thought was all but hers, she hoped to make;
And so, with all her soul endeavouring,
She lost it all, and with it all herself!

Sir Val.
If she had told me this—

Hero.
If she had told!
When, pray thee?—where? or how?—didst name a place,
Or time, to hear her vindicate herself?
Didst even hint it to her? In a breath,
You doubted, tried, condemn'd, and sentenced; nor
'Fore witnesses didst pity her to spare her!
They should beware, who charges lay in love,
On solid grounds they make them! for, there are hearts
So proudly fond, that, wrong them, there, they'll break
Or ever they will stoop to right themselves.
Much such a one is hers; and yet, with all
Her pride—for strong as that, more strong her love—
She trusts to win thee still.

Sir Val.
To win me still!
She gave me up, without a sigh or word.

Hero.
So had I given thee up, had I been she—
And yet I love thee.

Sir Val.
See me at thy feet!

Hero.
I can't, with thought how thou hast knelt at hers.

Sir Val.
Nay, hear me, but in pity.

Hero.
She in pity
Heard thee! and much it profited her!—much!
She now, it seems, may sue!

Sir Val.
I swear to thee
Eternal constancy!

Hero.
Thy witnesses,
Thy oaths to her!

Sir Val.
Where are the smiles just now
That beam'd upon me?

Hero.
Quench'd by Hero's tears.

Sir Val.
By Hero's tears! She never wept for me!

Hero.
She show'd thee not her tears; but what of that?
Her eyes might rain, and thou not see a drop.
I know they did so.

Sir Val.
Let me hold thy hand.

Hero.
Never, till her thou hast wrong'd, thou offerest
To right. The world return to, thou wouldst quit
It seems for me. Resume its habit; hie
To Hero Sutton's, whom I shall advise
To look for thee to-morrow eve. Repeat
What I have said to thee. If she denies
What I aver, be free to come to me,
And welcome too! If she acknowledges,
The hand of her, whose heart thou hast purloin'd,
Behoves thee ask and take

Sir Val.
Yet hear me!

Hero.
Nay!
These are the terms on which we break or meet.

Sir Val.
If she rejects me?

Hero.
Then will Ruth be thine.

Sir Val.
If she accepts me?

Hero.
Then, still thine, Ruth dies!

[They go out severally.

SCENE III.

—An Ante-Room leading into Hero's Chamber in the same house.
Enter Lewson, from the Window.
Lew.
Safe! Safe!—all silent! What has turn'd my feet
From flesh to lead? My body, which to bear
Their function is, appears to drag them on.
I wont not thus to feel. Ferrying across
From Limehouse now, I saved a drowning man.
Twice had he sunk in sight of his young brood,
That with their dam kept fluttering on the shore.
O, how they bless'd me! while the standers by
Echoed them, and to all inquirers said,
That ask'd who saved him, “Yonder's the good man!”
And I afoot to do an evil act!
Another should have saved him! Let it pass!
Is this her chamber? No, her dressing-room.
Ay, here's her woman's gear. What holds this case?
Her paint, I'll warrant—her cosmetics—aught
To give another skin; they're ne'er content
With nature's; patches, perfumes, dentifrice!
A book?—I'll wager one she durst not show!
A Bible! Umph! Strange reading that, methinks,
For a fine lady! Here's a leaf turn'd down;
What says the place? It seems to talk to me!
I'll read no further! So—what have we here?
Her letters! Excellent! Her letters!—now
To see how they can look and talk the saint,
And play the sinner, still! A hundred pounds,
The first is an amour!—A wretch's prayer
For help—herself and children without food
For two whole days! What, baggage! beg ere rob?
Wait for a thaw, and see thy little ones
Congeal to death i' the icy world!—With the thought,
I have a feeling how the tiger's fangs
Rend for her cubs the prey!—What alms didst hope
Her ladyship would give?—What would suffice
The dressing of her gown she wears a night
And casts aside, for foul! What's here—is this
Her answer—or the copy on't? Indeed!
Ay, when she gives she gives! She seems to think
That poverty, like plenty, is made up
Of flesh and blood. There's food for dam and whelps
For a whole week—The letter's to my wife!
She dined to-day,—fall to't—fall to't—thy brood
May gorge them now! Methinks I see them feed!
Heaven bless her!—What! Heaven bless her, did I say?
Then, what do I do here? No more of this!
I've work to do, chimes not with thoughts like these.
No more on't! Footsteps!—So—Beast to thy lair.

[Conceals himself.
Enter Hero; she goes to the window, and looks out.
Hero.
Whether mine eye with a new spirit sees,
Or nature is grown lovelier, I know not;
But ne'er, methinks, was sunset half so sweet!
He's down, and yet his glory still appears,
Like to the memory of a well-spent life,
That's golden to the last, and when 'tis o'er,
Shines in the witnesses it leaves behind.
They say, a ruddy sunset a fair day!
Oh! may it be a day without a cloud,
Which of my fate beholds the clearing up;
That I may quote it, ever, as a sign
Of sincere fortune, often as I say
Was ever day so bright! How calm is all—
How calm am I!—Would every breast I knew
Were lodge to heart so tranquil,—There was one—
A most strange history! Is she alive,
Or dead? [Eustace appears at the window.]
Who's there?

Eust.
[Entering.]
A friend!

Hero.
Help!

Eust.
Hush! I come
For safety!

Hero.
To thyself?

Eust.
To thee! Look here,—
Lest I should miss thee, I prepared this scroll.
More brief 'twill tell my errand, than my tongue
Could do't.

Hero.
[Reads.]
Lord Athunree!—This very night!
My house beset!—myself by force abstracted!

Eust.
If thou hast kindred in the neighbourhood,
Or friend thou canst rely upon, forthwith
Of thy immediate danger caution them,
By hands you can confide in—for my pains,
I pray you pay me with the only audience
Of some poor moments, when I'll take my leave.

Hero.
[To herself.]
I need not fear him! On his o'ercast brow
'Tis grief, not guilt, that lowers.—A minute's patience.
I shall rejoin you.

[Goes out.
Eust.
Thou art happy, Hero,
And she that loves thee, weeps—but not that thou
Art happy! Thy fair fortune is the likeness
Of what was once my own! It is a face
Reminds me of a valued friend that's lost,
And which I bless, the while it makes me weep!

Hero.
[Re-entering.]
What you advised, I've done—and now your pleasure?

Eust.
Have I your leave, I'll sit. I've used some haste—
Am somewhat out of breath—I thank you! So!
Pray you be seated, too. You've had your share
Of friends?—Your 'haviour's of the winning kind,
That goodness sweetens!—You are frank—You love
Another's weal more than you envy it—
And such a one makes friends.—'Mongst those you've found,
You surely some must miss, else was your fate
Past earthly blessing happy?

Hero.
I've lost friends.

Eust.
By—death?

Hero.
By death.

Eust.
And any by misfortune?

Hero.
Misfortune!—No, not any.

Eust.
[Rising.]
What!—not one?
Good night!

Hero.
What mean you? Do you take me for
A season friend, no stancher than the bird,
Whose time the sun appoints to come and go,
And's with us when 'tis summer?—Oh, you wrong me!
What!—I to love, as loves that summer bird
The land he makes his gay sojourning in,
My friend, because 'tis leaf and blossom time!
Indeed you wrong me!—Knew I, at this moment,
One cheek I loved, was beggar'd of its smiles—
Not one left to it—I vow to thee, the next—
If back'd my power my will, before the next—
My own should be its neighbour.—Oh! how much
You wrong me!

Eust.
Glad I am I've done thee wrong—
In sooth, I am—and yet I wrong'd thee not,
I only miss'd thy meaning! Hadst not a friend
Misfortune lost thee?—not that thou shunnedst her,
But that her heavy and most strange affliction
To thee and all her sex forbade her access?

Hero.
A friend?—a sister! What a fate was hers!
Of all I valued, she the being was
I least could measure worth with. Of all grace,
The pattern was she—person, features, mind,
Heart, everything, as nature had essay'd
To frame a work which none might find a flaw in!
And yet 'tis said, she fell—and if she did,
Let none be sure they'll stand! She couldn't fall!
There's such a thing as purity on earth,
And if she fell, there could be no such thing!
She didn't fall!—No! No!—I knew her, or
I never knew myself! Virtue with her
Was not a lesson we must con before
'Tis learn'd by heart; it was a portion of her,
Much as her stature, feature, shape, or voice,
Which, saving nature's, hand ne'er gave to her.
She has been outraged, slander'd—aught—but lost!
She could not fall—she did not—could not fall!
What ails thee?

Eust.
He that sets a banquet down
To famish'd lips, serves poison, and not meat,
For, ten to one, the greedy guest will die.
Yet blesses he the host, as I bless thee,
That spread'st for me this feast!

Hero.
This feast; What feast?
Move not thy lips thus impotently, or
I'll think thou diest indeed! What feast dost mean?
Is't one the heart makes? 'Tis—Thine eyes discourse
Language 'twould tax a hundred tongues to speak!
In wonder's name, who art thou? Say thou'rt not
What thou appear'st, I'll tell thee who thou art!
Could I not do't?—Could I not?—Helen?—What?
Well?—Am I right?—If ever thou valuedst
The homage of this breast, ne'er fear to claim it!
'Tis thine!—all!—all!—demand it!—take it!—come!—
'Tis thine as e'er it was!—Well?

Eust.
[Rising, but unable from emotion, to advance.]
Hero!

Hero.
Nay,
I'll bring it to thee, then! That's right—weep on!
My sweet!—my dear! my poor! my wrong'd one!—yes,
Wrong'd—wrong'd—I say't again! Thou need'st not speak,
Thou hast not strength—thou'lt sleep with me to-night?—
To-morrow for thy story.

Helen.
Nay, to-night.
I'm more myself again!—Let it be so—
Sit down a while. How hast thou been, my Hero

Hero.
Well, sweet, most well!

Helen.
Now by the love
Thou bear'st me, interrupt me not; but hear
My story out. Thou hast been told, that from
A roof which shelters aught but innocence,
In company with one, whom innocence,
That would be safe, should shun; i' the face of day,
Thy friend was seen to issue. Thither, by
A forgéd tale of misery, alone
She was decoy'd—exposed to outrage there—
Rescued by him—by him conducted thence—
Met in the street ere well her foot had left
The threshold—countenance refused her tale
By him that could have vouch'd its truth—by him
Her tale discredited, whose credence was
Life! happiness! all but honour! In a word,
Her virtue blasted, that had ne'er known blight—
Denounced as canker'd—rotten—while was sound
As thy own, Hero!—even, as thy own!

Hero.
I know't.

Helen.
You know't? Alas, you know it not—you think it—
Think it in the teeth of damning fact. It is
Your love!—your charity! An alms—an alms—
Is all that friend so kind as even thou
Can render now to Helen—Yet I'll be righted!
But fare thee well—'tis late!

Hero.
You'll stay with me?

Helen.
What! let me press thy pure sheets, Hero, with
A tainted name? How I have wrong'd thee!—Wouldst
Believe't? I once came to thy door—but there
I stopp'd. I was not wont to ask for leave
To enter it, and I must ask for't now!
I left thy door again—the certainty
To see it never ope thy friend preferr'd
To but the chance to see it shut upon her!

Hero.
To but the chance to see it shut on thee!
What warrant ever gave I for such chance?
Oh! had it wider, freer oped than e'er,
It only had anticipated what
Its mistress' arms had done—what now they do!
You shall not leave—nay, in sooth you shall not!

Helen.
In this attire, think, should I here be seen—

Hero.
I'll think of nought, but that thou now art here.
But that thou here shalt stay. Thou canst be gone
At dawn. Thou know'st a thousand things I have
To ask of thee—how we shall meet again?—
Where I shall find thee?—what thy projects are—
Deny me not, I pray thee! 'Twill but make
The greater beggar of me—Come!—You can,
You must—you will—this is my chamber—Come!

[They go out.
Lew.
[Entering in disorder.]
I cannot do't! Heaven 's on the watch against it!
'Tis said it guards the good, and if it does,
Its spirits sure are here—They are!—or why
This fearful awe come over me? I feel
As eyes were on me, that I cannot see—
Above me, lips that speak but are unheard—
And hands around me, with a thousand times
The power of flesh and blood, though sightless as
The air! Heaven will not have it be—It sets
Before mine eyes, the fruit of what I've done—
To warn me back from what I've come to do.
That hapless maiden owes her injured name
To me! I was the instrument to ruin her!
To fix on her the wanton's brand, that ne'er
In thought it seems incurr'd the wanton's stain!
To damn in this world, what i' the next is blest
Oh! heavy sin—Go sin no more! How's this?
Go sin no more! So said the book to me.
Then Heaven cares for sinners, it should seem!
O blessed book! I'll go and sin no more!
The chime! It lacks a quarter of an hour—
The very clock would save me. Was't the hour,
They'd have me in their fearful toils again!
Away! away! speed feet, while ye are free,
Softly and swift—the minutes fly! Away!

[Exit.